The Red Hair Ring
by Hannatude
Summary: Sherman Howard is a painfully shy British forensic technician working for the FBI. He met the great Sherlock Holmes once or twice. This is the story of one of those times. But in reality, Sherman Howard is nothing more than a role being played by a man with a mission. This is the story of that man. The man once known as Sherlock Holmes.
1. Introduction

~The Red Hair Ring: Intro~  
Written by Hannatude, Betaread and Britpicked by TheDragonAunt

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock Holmes (obviously) but I do 'own' Octavia Chandler. Well, as much as an author can own a character, that is. They're rather like cats - you only think you own them. But I digress.

* * *

_Americans_, Sherlock Holmes - currently sitting in his Mind Palace, observing his new alter-ego, Sherman Howard - sighed, rubbing his temples. He felt a headache coming on (probably in part because of the bloody hazel coloured contacts Howard was wearing) and he despised headaches. Almost as much as he despised Sherman Howard.

Sherman Howard, the chemist. Sherman Howard, the chemist, who came 'across the pond' to work in a crime lab associated with the FBI. It was all Mycroft's doing, of course.

Damn him.

He closed his eyes and felt Howard run his fingers through his hair - which had been shorn, bleached, and tinted a bland sort of ash blonde colour - and rotated his shoulders. Sherlock groaned at the dull pain that came as a result of Howard's constant slouching. He really needed to find a competent chiropractor soon...

He sighed again as Howard returned to the task at hand...paperwork. He was a genius detective, for God's sake - why was he being forced to sit in an oppressive lab, taking inventory of chemicals?! He should be out in the field, taking out Moriarty's people - No, no, that was Sherlock - he was Sherman. Sherman Howard. Sherman the Stuttering Shithead.

"Umm... C-could I have a pen, p-please?" Howard stuttered, addressing the woman sitting at the table next to him.

"I'm not the dispensary, Howard," she replied, as she studied a computer printout. She pulled a pen from behind her ear and began filling out the form. "As I've told you quite a few times, now."

"I...um, sorry. I l-lost the other ones, Miss..." Sherlock groaned. _So he's forgetful, is he? Wonderful. _The woman turned with a sigh, raising her pen to her mouth. She looked at it and groaned quietly before laying it on the table. **/ ex-smoker / **Sherlock noted, filing the information away for later.

"Really, Howard? Really? You've been working here for two weeks now, and you still don't know my name?" She stared at him with incredulity and exasperation. "Octavia Chandler," she ground out, her eyes narrowing as he reached for the pen she had abandoned. She growled and smacked his hand away, ignoring his squeak of surprise.

"No. You've already nicked six of my favourite pens. I'm not letting you nick this one, too." She stretched, nearly smacking the man's forehead. Sherlock, who had been strolling through the halls of his Mind Palace, stopped and blinked at her statement. _Since when do Americans say 'nicked'..?_

"And here was I, under the impression that this was the land of the free," Sherlock muttered, as he began rooting around in Howard's satchel for a pen. She blinked at his comment and picked up her coffee mug.

"It's the land of debatable political freedom. Not free office supplies." She glared at the mug, silently berating the contents for being cold. He sighed - he had to control himself better. _Don't slip up again, Sherlock. You are Sherman Howard._ He returned to his Mind Palace and resumed his stroll.

Howard watched as Octavia turned around and unlocked a storage cabinet, flicking up the handle with her elbow. The faint scent of coffee in the room suddenly intensified.

"M-may I ask why you keep your c-coffee maker in a locked cupboard?" Howard asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, already knowing the answer. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes condemning Howard's stupidity. He flinched at the look.

"The same reason anyone keeps anything in a locked cupboard," she replied, turning back towards the machine and preparing herself a fresh cup.

"Oh... P-problems with coffee thieves?" Sherlock had known it from the moment he had first walked into this lab, several weeks ago. He had deduced quite a bit about this woman with a quick glance at her workspace.

**/ single / late twenties / adopted in her early teens / only girl / 3 elder brothers, all working in law enforcement in some capacity/ lives alone / one bedroom apartment / likes cats / pets aren't allowed in said apartment / is considering looking for a new place of residence as a result, but hasn't committed to the idea yet / has a second job as a tutor for a young man named 'Anthony' / said young man has a crush on her, of which she is aware / Whovian / Anglophile / caffeine dependency / familiarity with firearms / capable of self-defence /**

"No shit, Sherlock," she muttered, shocking him from his Mind Palace once again. Sherlock blinked, tamping down the flash of panic. _What..? Did she just say...?_

"I said, 'No shit, Sherlock'. Haven't you ever heard that expression? It's from your side of The Pond, after all," she replied. Had he spoken aloud... or had she noticed the momentary change in his demeanour? Sherlock frowned. _Just how observant is this woman?_

"I hardly think I need to tell you who he is - er, was."

He nodded slowly, pulling back into his psyche.

"I... I was just, um, s-surprised to hear an American say it. I didn't know that it had left L-London, m-much less made its way to the, uh, United States." Sherlock watched her face closely as Howard stuttered on. Howard was afraid of her, he realised with a chuckle. Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, as she contemplated his response.

"I've got connections, Mister Howard." She rolled her eyes as Howard frowned in confusion. "Specifically, a wireless router." She pointed to a small white box on her desk. "Which allows me to connect to...the Internet." She spread her hand in an arc, as if drawing a rainbow.

"You…you never met him, did you? I've heard he was..." She shrugged, unable to really find the proper words to describe the detective. _He was...what?_

"S-Sherlock Holmes?" Howard asked, nervously. Sherlock tilted his head to the side. This woman intrigued him. She had no idea that he actually was Sherlock Holmes - and who would? Howard was based in part on one Philip Anderson - a man who was nothing like Holmes, at all - and partially on Henry Knight.

And yet... She knew of Sherlock. She had heard of him. And she wanted to hear more.

The question now was, did Sherman Howard ever cross paths with Sherlock Holmes? He deliberated, surprised by the fact that he was leaning towards telling her that they had. He decided to go with it, and allowed Howard to tell her so.

"W-we went to uni together, actually. We weren't r-really close but we talked. M-mostly about chemistry assignments and stuff, but sometimes we'd discuss other topics."

"Did he do the detective thing back then?" she asked, casually, as she returned to her chair. Her green eyes met his artificially hazel ones and they sparkled with excitement when he nodded. _I wonder if she was one of John's readers. _"Did he ever tell you about any of those cases?" _Definitely one of John's readers. Curiouser and curiouser._

"Y-yes, actually. In fact... I w-witnessed him working during a f-few of them. B-but I'm afraid I've forgotten a lot of the d-details over the years."

Which was an absolute lie, but the look on her face was worth it. Excitement and delight at the thought of hearing about the exploits of a young Sherlock Holmes warred with dismay at Howard's forgetfulness and general simplicity of mind.

"Tell me!" she ordered, the desire for a story winning out against her distaste for Howard. It was obvious she didn't mind Sherlock Holmes, whatsoever.

The man in question was once again sitting in his Mind Palace, his long violinist's fingers steepled in front of his smiling lips. He could definitely benefit from her fascination with his career. He reviewed the cases that John had sensationalised in his blog, chose one he hadn't, and simply inserted Sherman Howard in his blogger's place.

Suddenly, he was no longer Sherlock Holmes masquerading as Sherman Howard. He was Sherman Howard, a bumbling idiot with a penchant for losing almost everything he touched, a nervous stutter, and a surprising passion for science. He thought his new co-worker was mildly intimidating - hell, he thought everything was mildly intimidating - but he persevered because he was British, and that's what Englishmen do.

"O-okay... okay... Ummm..." He scrunched his nose and brows, biting his lip. "The Red... um... Hair Ring, I guess?" He frowned when he saw her twitching in frustration. "W-what?"

"The Red Herring?" Her tone was not impressed.

"N-no, no, Hair Ring. Like, a r-ring of people with red hair." Her expression remained the same. Howard squeaked, "I'll just...start the story..." 

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

So... here we are, then - the start of an old story with a new twist or two. I'm going to try to post a new chapter every week, because I know what it's like to wait forever for the next instalment of something-

*cough cough* The next season of Sherlock*cough cough*

But again, I digress.

If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a review saying as such. If there's something you want to complain about, review. If you want to offer some advice, or make a prediction, or compliment my cover (yes, I did make it myself) LEAVE A REVIEW.

When you're done leaving your review, why don't you head over to TheDragonAunt's stuff and give it a read? I suggest starting with "Consequences".


	2. And Thus, We Begin Our Story

"It was d-during a week-long h-holiday. He and I had b-both remained on campus - he always h-had experiments g-going, and I... W-well, I just didn't h-have anywhere to go. So it w-wasn't odd to w-walk into one of the c-chemistry labs to f-find him p-puttering about.

What was odd was t-that, on that d-day, he wasn't alone. One of the g-groundsman was talking with him. I r-recognised him by his b-bright red hair b-but I didn't know his name. Both he and Holmes looked up at m-my intrusion.

'I c-can come back l-later.' I said, b-backing out of the room.

'No, no, it's fine,' Holmes s-said, f-flapping his hand dismissively. 'Mister Wilson and I are just discussing a little mystery, that's all.'

I k-knew that he was s-something of a d-detective, of c-course. Everyone on c-campus did. B-but the f-fact that he w-was i-investigating and letting m-me see him work w-was...sort of an honour.

'Sometimes the strangest and most unique stories are not those that pertain to large crimes but to small ones - Sometimes the question of whether or not there was a crime committed at all may be brought to light.' Holmes remarked, steepling h-his hands in f-front of his f-face while inclining his h-head to the heavyset man sitting n-next to him.

'Here is one such story. Mister Wilson, if you wouldn't mind repeating your tale..?'

The G-groundskeeper nodded and p-pulled a scrap of paper f-from his pocket. It was wrinkled b-but still readable.

'Gort this from off the board, I did.' He l-laid it out on the lab t-table and f-flattened it out with his l-large hands. As he did so, I noticed a f-flash of pink at his w-wrist.

'Noticed his Chinese tattoo, did you?' inquired Holmes, resting his f-feet on the table. Mister W-wilson l-looked up at him in surprise.

'What - how did you know about that?' he asked. Holmes c-closed his eyes and sighed.

'I deduced it, obviously. It's quite well known in some circles that China is the only place one may get a tattoo with that particular style of pink staining. I also deduced the fact that you've been doing a considerable amount of writing, as of late, simply by observing the right cuff and left elbow of your shirt. Both are worn smooth, which is a result of resting them upon the desk for a long period of time." 

* * *

"MOOOO!"

Howard's tale was suddenly interrupted by the mooing of a cow.

"W-wha-?" he blinked, as Octavia groaned and rolled her chair over to her personal desk.

"MOOOO!"

"Yes, I heard you, you stupid thing... Stupid Luke, screwing around with my ringtones...," she muttered, as she pulled her phone from her bag and answered the call.

"Hello? ...Yes, Sir, this is -... No, the new guy is here, too -..."

She paled slightly as the caller continued to speak.

"Well, I could try to call-..." She turned to look at Howard for a moment, biting her lip before turning away again and continuing in a quieter voice. "It's just that I don't think he's ever been to a crime scene..."

Sherlock's head snapped up at her statement. He had been sitting in his Mind Palace, listening to Howard's account of his case, which had been frightfully dull; but this? This could be interesting. He shook off Sherman Howard but kept him close; rather like a light jacket on a cool spring day - one should always carry it, just in case.

"I've b-been to crime scenes," Sherlock stammered, keeping in character. Octavia turned and looked him over once again before covering the phone with her hand.

"It's like a seven on the - "

A Seven? Oh, it's Christmas time once again, Mind Palace Sherlock crowed. Outwardly, though, he merely nodded.

"I c-can handle it."

The younger woman's eyes narrowed.

"You do realise that a seven means that there will be several parts of several people in several places..." She blew out a deep breath when he only shrugged.

"Okaaaay... Just remember that I gave you the opportunity to back out."

She removed her hand from the phone's lower half. "He says he's okay with it, Sir."

She nodded as the man on the other end gave her more details.

"Yes, Sir - we'll be there soon."

She ended the call and tossed the phone back into her bag. "C'mon, Howard - time to see if you picked up anything from your time adventuring with Mister Sherlock Holmes."

Octavia had shed her lab coat while walking over to a drab grey cupboard. She had unlocked it, pulled out what looked like an attaché case, and shoved it into his hands.

"Check that," she ordered, as she pulled out another.

"Excuse me..?" Sherlock looked first at the case and then at her. He saw that she had opened hers – Oh, a crime scene kit, was it? He opened his and saw that, yes, it was a crime scene kit. There was a fingerprint kit (complete with both magnetic and traditional brushes), a bottle of Luminol (for revealing bloodstains), a mini torch/ALS (alternate light source - capable of white, ultraviolet, infrared, or laser light), evidence containers, swabs, scalpels, tweezers, lift tape, and a magnifying glass.

"Oh, it _is_ Christmas..."

"Yeah…no, it's not, because you don't get to keep that," she replied absently. "But I do know the feeling. Latex or nitrile?"

He blinked. _Latex or...?_

"Oh. Either is fine." Sherlock replied. "Lar…!" He nearly missed the box of gloves she threw over her shoulder.

"Th…!" Another package sailed in his direction. He caught it and looked at it disdainfully. "Shoe covers. Really?"

She turned to look at him, her arms crossed in front of her boyishly flat chest, obscuring the bright lettering on her shirt.

"Yes, really. Unless you want to run the risk of contaminating the crime scene with your shoe prints, that is."

She held up her hand before he had the chance to comment.

"I'm Queen of the Lab, so I make the rules. Now let's get going - the scene is about 20 minutes away, so you can tell me more of your story on the way."

Sherlock had just managed to adjust the strap on his satchel before she grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him from the room.

"Oh, a-all right..."


	3. Getting to know you

"Mister Wilson, if you would please continue with your story?" Holmes gestured to the w-wrinkled advertisement.

"Oh, yeh, right. Well, see this? "Attention Red 'Eads" it says. Caught my eye, because, well..." He tugged his hair with a self-deprecating smile. I reached for the paper, which he pushed over to me. It read,

"Attention, Red Heads! New openings in the Red Headed League-"

I looked up.

"Red Headed League? Like... A Cricket league?"

Holmes sighed again.

"Not as such. Perhaps, if you'd continue reading, you'll find out the answers to your questions."

"Oh, right. Sorry." I apologised and resumed.

"New openings in the Red Headed League. Earn 350 pounds a week doing practically nothing! Only true red headed men need apply..." below which there was the usual contact information. I looked up from the paper.

"Why would they want red heads only?"

Holmes smirked at my question.

"I don't believe it's that they wanted red heads. It's that they needed Mister Wilson, who happens to be a red head, away from his duties here on the grounds," he frowned. "Although I'm still not sure why, at the moment. But from what he has told me, he was definitely the target of a scam."

"I should think so!" huffed the groundskeeper. "I was making a nice bit of pocket change! Although, my 'and does 'urt a bit..."

"Yes... Quite. Writing letters for several hours every day does tend to do that." Holmes remarked as he stood.

"So you'll 'elp me find the blokes that cheated me?" Wilson asked, deflating slightly when Holmes merely shook his head.

"They hardly cheated you, Mister Wilson. You did receive payment for your services for... Eight weeks, I believe, if the date on this flyer is correct." 

"Oh... So... You won't take my case, then?"

Holmes' eyes shone.

"I didn't say that, Mister Wilson." he flipped the collar of his coat up as he headed to the door. "In fact, I am most definitely taking your case."

* * *

"We're here." Octavia's voice pulled him from his memories. He looked out the window - they were in a parking garage for a rather high-end apartment complex. Sherlock reached for the seat belt, but stilled as she cleared her throat.

"Did you know that you stopped stuttering, like, ten minutes ago?"

Sherlock blinked. He had been so caught up in his reminiscence that he had almost allowed his cover to slip once again.

"I, uh... When I get n-nervous..." he scrabbled for some sort of explanation, only to have one given to him by his interrogator.

"Oh... Yeah. I know I can be pretty intimidating." She tucked a strand of her brown fringe behind her ear as she sighed.

"Well... Not physically. Obviously." She flapped her hand. "I mean, my personality can be a bit much for some people. The guy who worked with me before you transferred in only lasted three weeks before he quit."

Her eyes widened as she realised how that really didn't help her case at all.

"Not that I think you're... What I meant was... I'm straightforward and shit, but... I don't mean to freak you out. I get it if you're not totally comfortable around me - culture shock's gotta be tough, too. So, um... If you've got questions or whatever, you can just ask 'em."

"All r-right, then...Why do you drive such a small vehicle?" he asked, opening his door and unfolding his long legs from her compact vehicle. _I've been looking for an excuse to stop that damned stuttering... _He thought, before nearly bashing his head on the roof of the compact.

"Oh, hey, c'mon, Howard; don't be hatin' on my car!" She popped out of her side of the vehicle, her head in no danger whatsoever. "But to answer your question... It gets me where I need to go, it's not a gas guzzler, and it's cute." She shrugged and continued. "I'm gonna go find out where we're supposed to be - could you grab the kits from the trunk?"

She walked to the guard kiosk, pulling something from her pocket and showing it to the men stationed there.

Sherlock, having stretched his legs sufficiently, went to retrieve the kits as requested. He shook his head at her eclectic collection of 'fandom' bumper stickers she had plastered all over her vehicle and her kit:

'The Chameleon Circuit on my TARDIS makes you think that this is a car', 'Curiouser and Curiouser', 'I break for Hobbits', 'Expecto Patronum' and 'Criminalists are Superheroes in Labcoats' stickers he understood. (To a point.)

But there were quite a few he didn't recognise, such as 'Fus Roh Dah', 'I spend my summers at Camp Half-Blood', 'OBJECTION!', 'Pastaaaaaa!', 'Alchemy: it only costs you an arm and a leg', and so on. There were also a large amount of stickers depicting what he assumed were characters from Japanese television shows, judging by their large eyes and bright colours.

He filed all of these observations in the small room in his Mind Palace he had set aside for his new, temporary assistant and proceeded to join her as the security guard unlocked the gate to allow them access to the lift.

"So... You've really been to crime scenes before, right?" Octavia asked once the three of them had entered the lift and turned to face the elevator door.

"Yes, I really have." He was trying to control his excitement. It had been several weeks since he had 'died' - four weeks exactly, now that he thought about it. He hadn't really had anything to challenge his mind since leaving his brother's flat the day after his funeral. He needed a case.

"With him?"

_Him..? Oh. Me. _"Yes, but there weren't any bodies." He entered his Mind Palace and flipped through his memories of John's stories. He transferred the ones involving violent crimes to the box marked "Not for Howard", which already contained all the 'case files' John had published on his blog.

He blinked as he left his Mind Palace, amused that had visibly deflated at his words.

"I have been to crime scenes where bodies were involved, though. Just not-"

The elevator door dinged and opened, revealing a tanned man with greying hair. He was dressed in a dress shirt and slacks, and his tie was loosened around his neck. He noticed the security guard, checking his name tag and looking at the well-built man's face before nodding.

**/ Office Worker / going down / moved in two weeks ago / recently divorced / no children / casual drinker / no relation to the deceased /**

"Sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to ask that you take the stairs down to the garage," Octavia said, barring him from entering the lift. "Official Police business. And you're going to have to answer some questions at the guard station before you can leave." She shrugged in a sort of 'what can you do?' manner and pushed the 'Close Doors' button.

* * *

Author's Note:

Raise your hand if you're going to miss Howard's stutter. ;)

And the first person to name all of the fandoms referenced by Octavia's stickers gets a cameo as a police officer or apartment tenant.


	4. The Scene of the Crime, Part One

Author's Note: Howard's story won't pick up again for another chapter or two.

Section Two contains rather graphic descriptions of a crime scene. I've tried to keep it as tasteful as possible, but it's necessary for the plot.

* * *

"So... What exactly are we dealing with here?" Octavia asked, nudging the guard with her elbow.

"A couple of college girls were killed," he answered, barely suppressing the shudder that ran down his spine. "The freak literally tore their bodies apart."

"_Literally _tore their bodies apart?" Sherlock repeated, with a scoff. "I rather doubt the perpetrator grabbed them by the arms and pulled -"

"Howard, I'm glad you've suddenly decided you can be assertive but this really isn't the time or place to be a grammar Nazi," Octavia interrupted, as the elevator doors opened. "C'mon - time to earn your keep."

"I'll take them from here." a broad shouldered man with a hat emblazoned "CIA" said, appearing from around a corner. The guard sighed in relief at the sight of the agent.

"You got it, Agent Russell."

Upon seeing their new escort, Octavia narrowed her eyes and placed her hands on her hips.

"What's the deal, Mark? You're CIA - this isn't your playground."

The older man lifted his hands in defence.

"Whoa there, Princess - This case actually _is_ my jurisdiction. I asked your boss to lend you to me."

Octavia huffed at his explanation.

"He could have mentioned that."

"He probably didn't want to put up with your bitching."

"I wouldn't have bitched at him, Mark - It's just nice to know when someone needs me for evidence collection versus requesting me to provide a consultation." She flicked her wispy fringe out of her eyes in frustration.

_Consultation? Is she that major a fan of mine..?_

"Agent Russell, was it?" Sherlock inquired, jolting the apparent long-time rivals back to the situation at hand. The agent smiled, apologetically, as he offered the ex-Consulting Detective his badge.

"Mark Russell, CIA."

Sherlock studied the man's ID for a moment before handing it back. Russell took it and clasped the detective's hand in his own, shaking it quickly.

"Sherman Howard. It's a...pleasure." He pulled his hand from the man's strong grip and wiped it on his chinos.

"So... you're the new squint, huh? Tay didn't mention the fact that you're British." As the agent stuck his hands in his pockets, his smile turned teasing. "Bet you can't get her to shut up about Doctor Who and how sexy you guys' actors are."

"The only one who can't shut up around here is you, Mark!" Octavia hissed, causing the agent to chuckle.

"Not to be rude, but I'm here for a reason and I'd like to get started," Sherlock cut in, rather perturbed that they were still standing around talking. Mark nodded and gestured for them to follow him down the hall. He began outlining the case as they walked.

"The girls who rented the place went to the local university. One of 'em is the daughter of a senator and the other's father is a rather... controversial individual. One we've been keeping our eye on for years. So we're pretty sure that the..."

Here he faltered, his easy-going, matter-of-fact demeanour becoming forced.

"…the remains belong to them. We aren't sure about the third victim, though. And... Well, you'll see what I mean."

He lifted the bright yellow tape barrier to let them through.

"Take your time, Tay, Sherman. I told the techs to take an extended lunch break - not that any of them will be able to eat, after seeing this..." He shook his head.

"Sometimes I wish you would quit this 'Crime Scene Consultant' thing and just stay in your lab. I'd sleep a tiny bit better knowing you weren't having any more of those damn nightmares..."

"Gee, thanks, Mark," Octavia muttered, as she opened her kit to retrieve a pair of gloves and shoe covers. "Any more personal information you think the newbie needs to know?"

"That's what big brothers do, Princess." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "We take care of our little siblings, even if it pisses 'em off and drives 'em away."

* * *

"Yes, he's my brother. We can discuss it over tea after we finish up here, if you want," Octavia muttered, as they entered the apartment. Her eyes widened. "Or alcohol. Alcohol and cigarettes."

Sherlock saw the appeal of her suggestion as he took in the sheer brutality of the scene.

It had obviously been a nice place; spacious and tastefully furnished. Unfortunately, the décor was now marred by horrifying amounts of splattered blood and knife slashes, and the air was heavy with a familiar metallic scent.

"He slaughtered them," Sherlock murmured, walking into the kitchen.

Drawers had been pulled out, and cupboard doors had been wrenched off their hinges. He took the thick plastic rimmed glasses off his face and shoved them in his pocket, massaging the bridge of his nose.

His eyes felt as if they were throbbing, making it next to impossible to concentrate. _I can't work like this. _The room suddenly came into sharp focus as he removed first one contact and then the other.

He took in the entire area, eyes flicking about frantically for any traces of blood. He spied the butcher's block - all the knives were missing.

"The kitchen is free of blood, but it's quite apparent that he raided the cutlery."

"The blood here in the living area is mostly cast-off," Octavia called from another room. "But it's really weird. Almost like..." Octavia's statement trailed off into silence. "Bloody hell!"

Yet another puzzle piece falls in to place.

**/ Birth parents were British /**

Sherlock ran out of the kitchen to see what had disturbed his 'assistant'. He unconsciously steepled his hands in front of his mouth as he studied the room.

"Hm. Leg duct-taped to a ceiling fan. That's new."

"Really, Howard?" she asked, her focus snapping from the fan to her co-worker, who had quickly evolved from a chronically timid pushover to... This.

"That leg belongs to a girl. A girl who was murdered. Show a little respect, yeah?" She huffed and flipped her fringe from her face again. "Are you, like, bipolar or something? You went from a stuttering lame-ass to..."

She flapped her hand in his direction as she removed a swab from her kit.  
"To whatever the hell this is... At the flick of a switch. Not that this version of you isn't refreshing, but would it kill ya to find a happy medium?"

He opened his mouth to reply when he was suddenly pulled into his Mind Palace.

_Honestly, Howard, now is not the time –_

A door opened, its hinges squealing eerily. He froze.

_No. It's not possible._

A quiet chuckle filled the hall.

_**And why not? You're alive, right?**_

He fell to his knees in shock.

_No... No!_

A pair of hand-made Italian shoes clicked across the floor. The fabric of a black Westwood suit brushed against itself, as its wearer squatted down in front of him. A tie, adorned with tiny skulls, being adjusted. A shit-eating grin and a pair of mad brown eyes -

_**'I did tell you, didn't I, Sherlock? 'You're not ordinary. No. You're me.''**_

"..No..."

Octavia turned just in time to watch the detective's eyes roll back into his head as his body crumpled to the floor.


	5. Mind Games and Monologues

"So, Sherlock - here we are~! You and me, together _forever_." Moriarty was sitting in front of his unwilling host, his hands clasped in his lap.

"We'll have _so_ much fun together, Sherlock. We really will. We can share secrets and tell scary stories and play _all sorts _of fun games here in your little castle."

He flung his hands out, gesturing to the rooms around him.

"I really do _love_ what you've done with the place. Very organised - of course, it is your mind we're talking about, isn't it, Sherlock? So it would be orderly and totally lacking in chaos and…"

He paused and smirked as he gazed at a painting.

"Is that a Vernet? Huh. How very _telling_, Sherlock."

"What. Do. You. Want?" Sherlock ground out, the shock of Moriarty's intrusion finally wearing off.

"Ohhhhh, you know... stuff. And thangs," Moriarty drawled, pulling his knees to his chest and rocking forward, invading Sherlock's personal space.

"I told you what I wanted, Sherlock. Remember? I said I was going to burn the heart out of you. Buuuuuut~!"

He lifted his finger and wagged it back and forth.

"I realised something that day on the roof, Sherlock. Or maybe I'd known it all along..."

He tapped his chin for a moment before shrugging dramatically.

"Either way, I realised something. Care to guess what it was?"

He punched his open palm as if suddenly remembering something.

"Oh, that's right! You don't guess, do you? _Nooo_, Sherlock Holmes is far too brilliant to stoop to guessing."

He uncrossed his legs and stood, brushing off the seat of his pants.

"Just this once, Sherlock. Just this once, I'll tell you, hm? Because we're _soo_ close and all!" He grabbed Sherlock, who was still slumped on the floor like a stringless marionette, and spun him around to face a large, ornate mirror. He then knelt again, his chest touching the detective's back, and jerked the detective upright, forcing him to look at their reflection in the mirror.

"You see, Sherlock... Before I can burn your heart... _I need to break your mind_."

* * *

- FIRST PERSON POV: OCTAVIA -

I can't believe this. I seriously CANNOT believe this! He was_ fine_, and then, BAM! The guy just suddenly... _blanks out _and crashes to the floor! Thank goodness Mark was close by, and could help me get his lanky (but not entirely unattractive) ass out of my crime scene - which he _totally_ compromised with his impersonation of Washington's cherry tree - and out into the hall...

I know that some people faint at crime scenes, but he had already seen some of the pretty messed up _shit_ going on in there before he passed out. And even if it _had_ been a delayed reaction, he shouldn't take this long to snap out of it, right? When the paramedics came back up (they had gone to lunch with the crime scene techs) they did some tests - flicked the torch in front of his face_, blah blah blah_, typical boring paramedic stuff_, yada yada yada_, couldja please just _wake him up _so I can yell at him and maybe _kick his ass _for _freaking_ me out?

I mean, _seriously_, Howard - we were at a friggin' _crime scene_! What if it was the depraved freak who killed those girls who came back, and he had gotten you, too?

(Okay, so it's not like that'd ever actually happen, because Mark was guarding the scene and we were eight storeys off the ground and there was no way someone could get up to the patio without _someone_ noticing and even if they did, the patio doors were locked, but _still_!)

Panic attack city - (temporary) population: Yours truly.

I say we '_were_' at a crime scene because we aren't there any more. Nope, we're at the hospital. _Yay_! (That was sarcasm, by the way. I totally _hate_ this place.) We're here because Stutterbutt _might_ have bashed his forehead on the floor when he fainted and that _might_ be why he's still unconscious.

And, because he's on loan to us from some super-duper British agency (a fact that I was unaware of) along with the fact that I'm supposedly _directly responsible _for him (also unaware of that fact), I've gotta stay with his sorry carcass instead of work on this case.

...I wonder if there's something wrong with his brain? Like, an infection or something. Maybe that's why he was acting so... _Weird_.

I mean, it wasn't just what he said when he saw the victim's leg. His whole demeanour had changed. He was... Excited, maybe? Definitely _not_ the same reticent, mousy Sherman Howard I've been working with for the past few weeks.

Speaking of the past few weeks...

Octavia pulled out her phone (she had been given permission to use it because of the '_unique situation_') and logged on to the hospital's wifi network.

She checked her email (sent Kevin a message _kindly_ requesting that he stop hacking into her phone and changing her ringtones, or _no one will ever be able to find his rotting corpse_) Facebook (denied several friend requests from some of Mark's co-workers) and then, finally, 'the Personal Blog of John H. Watson'. The latest entry was dated "16th June"... Four weeks ago.

Still no updates then. _Poor guy_. I had watched the newscast so many times, I had the reporter's statements memorised. Her faulty, inaccurate statements.

James Moriarty was an actor named Richard Brook? Hired by Sherlock Holmes, himself? _Please_. Anyone with an _ounce_ of common sense should know better! _Shouldn't they..?_

I could internally rant about that for hours. In fact, I often find myself doing just that. But at the moment, I _really_ didn't want to get all hot under the collar about Moriarty - who was _very_ real, by the way.

Octavia bit her thumb as she went back to the first 'Sherlock' entries on John's blog.

I really do love reading about him - Sherlock Holmes, that is, not John Watson. Although he seems like a nice guy. A bit desperate, at times, but nice. Their landlady sounds sweet, too.

When I met Rufus Bruhl (the English ambassador to the US. We met at a thing after I helped catch a serial killer. Really long, _boring_ story.), he said, "You're a bit like our Sherlock Holmes - you haven't heard of him, have you? Well, you should take a look at this bloke's blog, then!"

And he sort of... I dunno, converted me, I guess. And that was before Holmes found his kids when they had been kidnapped.

Anyway... I guess I developed a sort of obsession with Sherlock Holmes. Not in a creepy Moriarty way, _obviously_, but in a... 'you're my role model, and I respect you' sort of way.

(The fact that he's British doesn't hurt, of course. And fact that he's _absolutely gorgeous _in a strange, almost alien way, _really_ doesn't hurt. I mean, that hair... The cheek bones... And those eyes? _Hnnng._..)

In fact, when I heard that I was going to be getting a British assistant tech, I _may_ have fantasized that it was him. For a little while. Not _that_ long, though.

Okay, so it was actually a full week.

But you can't really blame me! I mean, investigating crime scenes with Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective? How mindblowingly _fantastic _would that be?!

(Yes, I know, he's dead, _shut up_. It's called fantasizing because _it could never happen_.)

Instead I got Sherman Howard, Consulting Stutterbutt.

_Story. Of. My. Life._


	6. Waking Up

AN: Only one section this time, kids. This story's format is just _sooo changeable!_

Also - I wanna wish all of you guys a Happy Easter (coming up on this Sunday, the 20th of April)!

I hope that **none** of you are planning to celebrate that particular date by partaking in any... _questionably legal_ activities. 

* * *

_**Okay, Sherlock... Let's wake up now, hmm? C'mon, Sherlock, Daddy's getting booooreeed..!**_

When Howard finally regained consciousness, Octavia was slouched in a chair near his hospital bed, muttering to herself in her sleep.

"Observe, Mister Potter... I pick up Thor's hammer... and it's a machine gun..."

_**Well, she seems nice and crazy. You sure know how to pick them, don't you, Sherlock?**_

Howard's eyes fluttered open, taking in the room around him.

"Werhemi..?" he frowned and wet his lips. "Werrrr... Uh."

_**Wow, Sherlock. Such dapper. Much eloquence. Very talking. Wow.**_

Octavia was startled awake at the sound of his voice.

"Ito'llywasn'asleep!"

She rubbed her eyes and yawned. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Howard looking at her.

"Oh... You're conscious _now_, huh? Took your damn time."

She yawned again.

"D'you know that you _totally _compromised the integrity of my crime scene with your _face_?"

He blinked several times as he slowly sat up.

"Well, not with your face - I mean, your face _alone_ dinnit compromise the scene. It's actually a nice-looking face, all things considered... Smashing into the _floor_ with your face is what messed up my scene."

She glared at him, sleepily.

"Why don't you just... barf onna bloody _rug_ next time, huh? Make it easier to... to... Oh, never mind. S'not like you could help it, right?"

She stood, stretching out her arms with a moan before grabbing a glass of water off the side table.

"You're in the hospital, by the way. They had to do a whole _crap-load_ of tests on your head because you were _totally _out of it."

She walked past the end of his bed and paused, looking at the chart the nurses had posted there.

"_Daaang_, Howard - you did whack your head on that floor. You've got a tiny hairline fracture and a concussion - nothing _super _serious, but still... _Ouch_. _Totally _not envious of the headache _you'll _be having."

She shoved the glass in his face, poking his cheek with the straw.

"Sorry."

"What...happened?" Howard asked, after he succeeded in getting a drink.

_**You're the detective, Sherlock. Shouldn't you tell her?**_

"You don't remember, huh? That's normal, according to the nurse. So long as you can remember the important stuff, like your name and everything, it's okay."

She looked at him expectantly.

"That was a subtle request for you to tell me your name and all that."

"O-oh. My name is Sher-"

_**Go on, Sherlock. Tell her the truth. You know you want to - you're soooo booooored, pretending to be normal.**_

"Sherman Howard."

_**How predictable, Sherlock. How utterly, borINGLY PREDICTABLE!**_

"Hey, um...you're flinching, Howard. Those painkillers wearing off already? Do you want me to call the nurse?"

_**Of course the painkillers have worn off, haven't they, Sherlock? At this dose, it's like they aren't even there - your recreational doses were almost twice this much, weren't they?**_

He looked up at the young woman, surprised at the concern he saw in her eyes.

"N-no. I..."

_**Oo, why don't you tell her you're hearing voices! Let's see how she responds to that, Sherlock.**_

Ignoring the nearly constant jeers of his nemesis (his _other _nemesis, that is-The Mycroft in his head was being rather quiet, for once.) was proving difficult. He needed some way to drown him out.

_**The Iceman's in here, too? Golly, Sherly, aren't ****you**** screwed up!**_

"Howard..?"

Octavia's brow furrowed as she watched Howard's silver-blue eyes lose focus. _Wait...His eyes were brown earlier. I know they were. Does he wear coloured contacts AND glasses?_

"Hey, um...your... handler - I guess you'd call her that, I dunno - was contacted because of insurance crap or something, I don't understand it _at all_, but basically you need to call her back."

She pointed to his mobile on the bedside table.

"You...answered my phone?"

_**Oooo... Are you panicking, Sherlock? You are~! Oh, this IS fun...**_

"Woah - chill _out_, Bro. I didn't answer your phone."

Octavia lifted her hands in innocence as Howard stared at her, his blue-grey eyes shifting to green in his panic.

"Now that is a neat trick, Howie. Heterochromia, huh? Lucky."

Sherlock blinked and nodded slowly, still concerned about her touching his phone.

_**Howie? She's calling you HOWIE?! OHMIGAAAAWD, Sherlock~! That. Is. So. Adooooorable~! ...Can I shoot it?**_

"As I was saying; I didn't answer _your_ phone. Your British boss's secretary called my boss's secretary, who gave your boss's secretary my mobile number. Your boss's secretary then called _my_ mobile, and I answered _that_. Your eyes are actually _really_ pretty. Why do you wear coloured contacts?"

_**Suffer from whiplash much, Sherlock?**_

"Oh, yeah - the doctors said you're going to need someone watching you for the next few days - just to make sure you don't do something _epically stupid _like doing a faceplant on marble tile or something."

She grinned, teasingly, as she handed him his mobile.

"And because I've committed the heinous, unforgivable crime of being the _only one _with a spare room, I'm your new landlord. Lady. Whatever."

_**Huh. Weeeell, Sherlock, I've changed my mind about shooting the girl. I'm getting the feeling that you moving in with her is going to make MY job sooooo much easier... She'll drive you madder than a hatter in less than a week!**_

Sherlock watched as she pulled out her cellular and opened her contacts.

"I know the number," he said, looking at his own device.

_**~Sherly, Sherly, who can you turn to?**_

_**You give me somethin' I can burn right through~**_

Great. Now the psychological manifestation of his worst enemy was _singing_.

_**~I'll say it again, just like I said it bef~ooore**_

_**I'm gonna burn your heart, yeah, I'll burn it all~**_

"Oh. Cool. Well, in that case, I'm gonna go see if I can get you checked out of here. Call the nurses' station when you're done, yeah?"

She nodded to the button on the bedside before opening the door.

"Laters, then."

She lifted her hand in a lazy wave before exiting the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Sherlock ignored her in favour of dialling the familiar number. He lifted the phone to his ear and waited for someone to answer.

_**~Sheeeeerlock, I got your numBER**_

_**I'm here to break your miiii~nd**_

_**Sheeeeerly, now don't you won~der  
What's the scope of this scheme of mi~iine?**_

With what little patience he had left, Sherlock reordered his thoughts (the ones Moriarty hadn't hijacked and transformed into twisted parodies of music from the Seventies and Eighties) and pushed them as far from the forefront of his mind as he could.

_**Awww, Sherlock, don't be like that! You make me feel so unloved and alone...**_

"You've reached the…" a feminine voice answered.

Sherlock nearly growled as he interrupted.

"Oh, do cease the theatrics. I've a massive headache and I'm not in the mood. Just hand me over, will you?"

_**We both know you **__**can't ignore me **__**forever, Sherlock. **__**It really is a pointless **__**endeavour...**_

On the other side of the ocean, a dark-haired woman made eye contact with her employer and silently offered him the device. The man nodded and gave her a painful, pinched smile and brought the phone up to his ear. The woman inclined her head and backed out of the room.

"I wish I could say I'm surprised, but we both know that it would be a lie. Don't we, Brother Dear?"

* * *

AN: If you recognised Octavia's 'sleep quote', you get a cookie.

And if you can guess the song that Moriarty creatively butchered, you get a cookie and a cameo.  
I'll give you a hint - it isn't from a British Band, but it IS from the 70's-80's.

- Hanna


	7. House Rules are Serious Business

"Sooo... You can have this room. Just toss your crap wherever," Octavia yawned, belatedly covering her mouth. "Y'know, for a dude who's been living in a hotel for two weeks, you sure as hell have a lot of st-"

RIIIIING! RIIIIING!

"Thaaaaaat's_ probably _Mark. Just...get comfy, or whatever. The bathroom's down the hall, if you wanna get cleaned up. Just _don't_ mess with your sutures. Or my stuff."

She turned and left the room, yelling at the phone. Her loud footsteps crashing down the stairs had him shaking his head in mild amusement.

He had been surprised when she had driven up to a large home, rather than the small apartment he had initially deduced to be her place of residence. Why had he thought that, again? Oh, yes - the amount of personal clutter that filled the lab. Judging by the state of the house (the parts of it he had seen, that is) he had quickly come to realise that she spent _far _more time at work than she did at home.

Sherlock dropped his luggage on the bed and began looking at his new accommodations.

It was a fairly basic guest room - queen sized bed, closet filled with hangers, an oval shaped mirror hanging above a set of drawers. Upon examining said drawers, Sherlock's lips twitched with amusement. Laying on it was a laminated sheet of paper with the words 'HOUSE RULES" scrawled across the top, in bright red ink.

HOUSE RULES

NOTICE: Failure to comply may result in me kicking your ass to the curb.

Rule One: Don't mess with the thermostat. If you're cold, get a blanket. If you're hot, get a fan.

_**'Huh. Bit of a control freak, eh, Sherlock?'**_

_'Oh. You're back, are you?'_

_**'Why, OF COURSE I'm back, Sherlock. I never actually left.'**_

_'Hnn. Kindly remove your hand from my knee.'_

Rule Two: Respect my schedule, and I'll respect yours.

_**'DEFINITE control issues. Better watch out, Sherlock.'**_

_'Yes... Because I've NEVER dealt with someone who had that sort of problem. Why is your hand still on my knee?'_

_**'Because it makes you nervous, Sherlock.'**_

_'Move it now, or I'll lock you away again.'_

Rule Three: If you mess with my XBOX, your remains will be used as food for a colony of dermestid beetles.

_**'Ooo, hang on, Sherlock. I might **__**actually**__** get along with her, if she's serious about that 'feeding people to flesh eating beetles' thing...'**_

_'Oh, wouldn't you just. And when I requested that you move your hand, I didn't mean move it up to my thigh.'_

Rule Four: Unlabelled food is fair game, UNLESS...

_**'Bet it's chocolate. What about you, Sherlock?'**_

_'Your HAND. Remove it.'_

_**'Mmmm... How about... No. Sorry, Sherlock. Weeeell... Not **__**really**__** sorry.'**_

Rule Four point Five: ...it's chocolate, in which case, it's mine. Even if it's yours, it's mine. Unless it's dark chocolate. Then you can keep it.

_**'I called that one, didn't I, Sherlock?'**_

_'Why are you doing this?'_

_**'You know why. It's because I feel like it, Sherlock. That's my reason for doing everything I do.'**_

Rule Six: This is not your parent's house, nor do I employ a cleaning service, so clean up after yourself.

_**'What do you think she'll do to us if we don't, huh, Sherlock?'**_

_'There is no 'us' here, Moriarty.'_

_**'Ummm... Pretty sure **__**I'm**__** here; and **__**you're**__** here, Sherlock... And then there's that annoying little... Howard-thing. And since we're all in one place, I'd say there **__**is**__** an 'us' here.'**_

_'Believe me - you'll be leaving soon.'_

_**'Wishing now, are we? Why Sherlock, I didn't know you knew how!'**_

Rule Seven: You can have your significant other over but, if you're gonna screw around, make sure:

A) I don't hear it, and neither do the neighbours

B) You use your own sheets (NOT MINE)

C) clean up afterwards

_**'...Well, she won't have to worry about that, will she, Sherlock? Just the concept of sex is so absolutely **__**terrifying**__**, isn't it?'**_

_'I'm honestly not sure what's hurting my head more - the concussion or your constant stream of nonsensical chatter.'_

_**'Aww, I love you too, Sherlock!'**_

_'Would you just stop TOUCHING me?'_

NOTICE: The following items are FORBIDDEN.

*Illicit Substances (i.e. Drugs)

_**'Ooo, Sherlock - better behave!'**_

_'At the moment, the only reason I have for seeking the relief of said substances is you.'_

_**'That's kiiiiind of the point here, Sherlock.'**_

*Music by Justin Beiber and Miley Cyrus

_**'...I wholeheartedly agree with this one, Sherlock.'**_

_'Could you stop talking now? It's not helping my headache.'_

_**'Nooooope~!'**_

*Anything relating to 'vampires' that sparkle (which will henceforth be referred to as 'Sparkle Fairies')

_**'...Oh, I take it **__**ALL**__** back. We're going to have **__**so**__** much **__**FUN**__** living here, Sherlock!'**_

_**'Sherlock..?'**_

_**'Ohhh, Sheeeeeeerlooooock...!'**_

"Hey, Sherman-"

* * *

"Howard..." Octavia's voice snapped him from his Mind Palace.

"Yes..?" he asked, with a yawn.

"Oh, good, you aren't _dead_ in there. I was kinda starting to _worry_ when you didn't respond. Hope you're decent, I'm coming in."

She pushed open the door and walked over to him.

"Oh... You found the house rules." She took the sheet of paper from his hand.

"It's..._interesting_, to say the least. Do you have long-term guests often?" he asked, noting her eye contact avoidance.

"Yeah... I sometimes rent out the spare rooms to college students during the school year," she shrugged, pulled the top drawer open and deposited the page in it.

"That makes sense. This is a fairly large house, especially for a single woman. The upkeep must be rather expensive."

Octavia shrugged again.

"It's the house I grew up in. I inherited it when I turned 18. Didn't move in until I was halfway through college, though. But even when I was a kid, Mum and Daddy rented out rooms to college students."

She walked over to the bed and flopped down on it with a sigh.

"Mum taught Art and Daddy was a Psychology Professor. They met at University, fell in love, got married, and then came here to the USA to teach," she recited, emotionlessly, as she stared at the ceiling.

"Mum took a few years off after I was born but, when I was four, she began teaching again. I pretty much grew up on campus - I was technically home-schooled, only my teachers were all college professors."

She fell silent.

"I didn't interact with my peers much at all as a kid. The only time I really had the chance to really talk to other kids was during the summer, when my Mum taught some art classes at the community center..."

She sat up and looked at Sherlock, an apologetic smile on her face.

"I'm sorry - dunno why the _hell_ that came up. I just popped in to see if you were okay, and ask if you were hungry, but... I dunno."

She stood and walked over to the door once again.

"I guess... I guess there's something about you that makes me feel like you might... I dunno...understand it," she mumbled, as she shoved her hands in her pockets, her forehead pressed against the door. "That smart kids get shit luck, I mean."

She turned, took a deep breath, and looked past him. "You eat pizza?"

"I... What?" _This woman changes the subject as tactlessly as..._

Sherlock couldn't think of the words he needed to complete the simile, which was very indicative of his state of mental health.

_"Peetzaaah_," she enunciated, drawing a circle with her hands. "Round, flat dough covered in tomato sauce, cheese, and various other toppings and then subsequently baked?"

"Yes, I'm aware of what a 'Peetsa' is. I'm just... tired."

She nodded.

"Yeah, I would be, too, if my day was like yours was. Do you want a Vicodin?"

"I was lead to believe that drugs were forbidden here," he replied, without thought. "That is to say-"

"I told you, Howard - it's _okay_ to let it go around me. I'm not gonna _beat you up _or anything. And, as you've _probably_ noticed by now, I've got a pretty weird sense of humour, too. So you can stop being such a Stutterbutt, m'kay?" she remarked, her eyes rising to meet his before quickly flitting away.

"Is there something the matter with my eyes, Miss Chandler?" Sherlock asked, internally wincing at Moriarty's raucous laughter at his latest unfortunate nickname.

"No! They're justkindasexyand_totally_distracting," she blurted out before slapping her hand across her mouth. "I'm sorry! I just..."

"I'm not going to 'beat you up' over your comments either, Miss Chandler."

Sherlock watched closely as her pupils dilated ever so slightly.

"R-right. Well, if you don't need anything, I'll, uh, see you in the morning so goodnight!"

She turned and fled from the room.

* * *

Author's Note: Sherman's story should be back soon, for those who miss it.

Also, it's my birthday on the 26th. (yay!) I'd ask for Benedict Cumberbatch, but I highly doubt that'll be happening... So I'm going to ask for reviews instead. ;)

(Benedict - if, in the HIGHLY unlikely event that you're reading this; words cannot express my admiration for you. You are the greatest Sherlock Holmes this world has ever had the pleasure of oogling.)


	8. Return of the Storyteller

"Hey. Hey. C'mon, buddy, time to get up..."

Sherlock Holmes awoke to the extremely unpleasant sensation of being poked in the cheek with a fork.

"Mmmfffrrgh." He opened his eyes and squinted up at his petite assistant. In her left hand she held a plate, and in her other was the aforementioned fork. "Nnnnn... Time'sit..?"

"Time to get up." She gestured, with the fork, to the alarm clock on the bedside table before offering him the plate. "How's your head?"

"Fine, all things considered," he replied, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He looked at the plate and frowned as he took it. "What is this?"

"Breakfast, obviously. I figured that eggs and bacon were international enough for you." She gave a one-shoulder shrug as she dropped the fork onto his plate."There's other stuff in the kitchen, but Mark, Kev and Luke are here, so if you want anything else..." she walked to the door, "You'd better hurry up and get out of bed."

* * *

"Oh, hey, Howard, Vivi," Mark waved, before shovelling a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and flipping the top page in the stack of papers scattered around. The other two men sitting around the table looked up from their work and nodded.

"Don't call me that, Mark." grumbled Octavia as she poured herself a cup of tea and stalked over to the breakfast bar. "Introduce yourselves, will you?" She perched on the barstool and became engrossed in the papers spread in front of her.

"Kevin Russell. Nice to meet you," the large, dread-locked man said, offering his hand. Sherlock looked at the plate he held in his own hands and set it down on the table to return the man's handshake.

"So you're a Russell, too - Were you adopted as a young child, then?" he asked, shaking his head to the man's offer of sausage gravy. It was obvious to Sherlock Holmes that the answer was 'no' but to Sherman Howard, on the other hand...

"Nope. I was in 'n' outta foster homes 'n' juvie until I was 16. I chose to change my last name after I found my home... Unlike Queen V, here." The African-American man chuckled as Octavia threw a napkin at him. "Hey, Lukey, your turn."

"I'm Luke - youngest of the Russell brothers. There's nothing much else to say about me, really."

Sherlock, having noticed the genetic similarities between Mark and Luke as soon as he had entered the room, nodded.

"I told them the story about Sherlock Holmes and the red-haired guy. Well, I told them as much as you told me. Think you could continue it? I'm having a hard time concentrating on these crime scene photos and wouldn't mind a brea-"

"You've got photographs from the scene?" Sherlock interrupted, padding over to her side and reaching for the folder. She slapped it shut and shook her head.

"Story first."

"But-"

"No."

"Might I just-"

"No, Howard," she glared up at him, through her wispy fringe, like a petulant child. Her elder brothers, who were used to this sort of behaviour from their sister, merely continued with their tasks, their lips twitching occasionally.

* * *

Sherlock stared down at his assistant, bracing himself on the counter top. His head hurt - Moriarty was giggling about something _yet again _- and he just wanted to distract himself from his predicament. He was in no mood to pander to this... woman... and her childish temper.

Octavia bit her lip as she held her assistant's gaze. He had suddenly become entirely _too_ assertive and she had to remedy that - but his eyes were just so damned _pretty_ that she was quickly forgetting just what it was that she was frustrated about...

"_Dayum_... The sexual tension in here is so thick you could cut it with a knife," Kevin stage whispered, eliciting a chuckle from his younger brother.

"Wh-What?! No! _Augh!_ No, no, _NO_! Belt _UP_, Kev!" Octavia growled, turning to yell at the man, her cheeks becoming a shocking shade of red.

Sherlock, seeing his chance, slipped the contents out of her folder and replaced them with several of Mark's discarded files. Just as he rose to retreat with his prize, the room around him began to fade and a cacophony of confusing noises assaulted his ears.

"No no no no no no no..!"

His eyes widened in horror as flames began licking at the walls in his Mind Palace.

**"~ Hello,**

**Is there anybody in there?**

**Just nod if you can hear me**

**Is there anyone at home... ~"**

"Stop! Stop this, Moriarty! Stop it STOP IT!"

**"~Come on now**

**I hear you're feeling down**

**I can ease your pain**

**And get you on your feet again**

**Relax...~"**

An Italian leather loafer was suddenly wedged between his shoulder blades, shoving him to the ground.

"Stop..."

**"~You are only coming through in waves**

**Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying...~"**

Jim leaned forward, pressing his knee into the small of the taller man's back, and grabbed Sherlock by the hair. He wound his fingers in it and tugged it back, yanking the detective's head off the floor to whisper in his ear.

"What's the matter, Sherlock~? Feeling a little..._numb_? Weeeell, don't worry. I promise I'll take good care of _everything_..."

* * *

"Oh, _shit_, Mark, he's doing it again!" Octavia grabbed Sherlock's shoulders just as his head dropped forward. "What the bloody _hell_ is _wrong with you_?!" she cried as her eldest brother helped her lower the detective to the floor. Kevin shoved a wadded up towel under his head as Luke prepared to perform CPR.

"He's still breathing. Lemme check his pulse a sec-" As he pressed his fingers to the detective's neck, Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his gaze travelling over to Octavia.

"Oh... I'm sorry. Did I _frighten_ you~?"

* * *

AN: DUN DUN DUN ;)

Sooo Moriarty's gone and found another song: This one's an un-butchered 'Comfortably Numb' by Pink Floyd.

Oh, and thanks for all the birthday wishes - I really appreciated it. :)

- Hanna


	9. A New Character is Introduced

Annnnd now, we return to our originally scheduled story within a story. :)

* * *

"Sherman?" Octavia studied her assistant carefully. "Are you... okay..?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm _fiiine_~! It's just because of stress; you understand, I'm sure. What with the move and the culture shock - that sort of thing." He flashed her a toothy grin as he stood. "I think I'll go to the sitting room, though, just in case I... lose my head again."

Octavia swallowed nervously - something was definitely not right with Sherman Howard. "R-right. You, ah, go do that, Howard."

He began whistling a vaguely familiar tune as he strolled out of the room, his hands behind his head.

"Oh! I can continue the story, if you like. I really do _love_ telling stories..." he called back.

As she reluctantly stood to follow him, Octavia turned to look at her brothers, her eyes flicking towards the doorway. "I dunno who the hell that is…but he definitely isn't Sherman Howard."

"What do you mean, he isn't Sherman Howard?" Luke asked, looking at his sister in confusion.

"Sherman's personality - it's changed. Again." she muttered, as she began clearing the breakfast debris. "He was really quiet and bashful up until we went to the crime scene. All of the sudden he was all..." She paused as she turned on the garbage disposal.

"All…what?" Kevin asked, with a smirk.

"Get your mind out of the _gutter_, Kev," Octavia snapped, bracing herself against the sink. "I'm serious- he's different. I like him and all; he's competent and knows his way around a lab. But..." She turned and looked at her brothers, her green eyes shimmering with unshed tears, "I just can't help but remember-" she sighed as she was engulfed in a hug.

"Octavia, it's fine. It's not going to happen again," Mark soothed, kissing her forehead.

"Damn right, it isn't! I'll take him out myself if he even thinks about it!" Kevin interjected, rubbing her back.

"And I won't arrest Kevin if he does take him out," Luke added, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "Well, unless I have to. But I'll let him have a head start- Oww! Hey!" Luke glared at Kevin. "You didn't have to flick me, Kev!"

Octavia rolled her eyes as she extricated herself from the cat fight that was about to ensue.

"Girls, we've been over this - you're both pretty," Mark teased, as he placed a large hand on each man's chest and forced them apart.

"SHUT UP, MARK!" both men replied, turning to force him in a headlock. Octavia laughed as her older brothers began wrestling like teenagers.

"Losers clean the kitchen!"

* * *

After the four siblings _eventually_ made their way to the sitting room (Kevin had made quick work of Luke, only to have met his match in Mark - who was defeated by a water pistol wielding Octavia) the Storyteller began his tale.

"So...where were we, again? Ohhhh, right, I remember - Sherlock was going to take the case. As if there was any doubt."

* * *

Mister Wilson led Sherlock - and myself, _obviously_ - to the maintenance shed on the grounds, because Sherlock felt it was important.

"This is where I keep my tools and all that," the dull, old man said.

(He really was a dull man - of _course_ he kept his equipment there.)

"I have an assistant, Vinny - that's him, there, actually! Vinny! C'mere!"

A short man in his thirties shuffled over to us, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and nodded in greeting. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, despite the relative dreariness of the day. He looked _quite _suspicious; of course, our 'guide' was _oblivious_ to it, and just continued to _blather on_.

"Vinny here is the one what told me 'bout the flyer on the board. It was not long after he came to work here - 'bout a month, yeah?"

The other man just shrugged and pulled his hand from his pocket to scratch his cheek. There was thick dirt encrusted under his nails, and his fingers were yellowed from nicotine. Dis_gusting_, really. He removed his cap to brush back his hair, revealing a rather noticeable scar across his forehead. Sherlock and I saw it right away, _of course_.

"Would you mind if I had a quick look around your shed, Mister Wilson?" Sherlock asked, before walking into the building. (I swear, that man had _no_ tact.) His eyes scanned the walls, the ceiling, and the floor for about thirty seconds before he turned and left the shed. He then walked around it, nodding to himself once again.

"Right. Well, thank you, Mister Wilson - I'll get back to you within the next few days." He stalked off, his ridiculous greatcoat flapping behind him.

* * *

"_Soooo..._" Howard yawned widely, his teeth flashing. Octavia found herself feeling uncomfortable around this latest version of her assistant. She rubbed her forearms, willing the goosebumps away. Mark looked at his watch and stood, motioning for Kevin and Luke to do the same.

"We'd better head out - take it easy, kids." He squeezed Octavia's shoulder as he left the room, meeting her gaze and giving her a tiny nod, which she hesitantly returned.

"_Weeell_~ I think I'll go back to my room and rest," Howard announced, after the men had left. He stood and strode over to her, placing his hands on the arms of her chair. "Unless you...want me for _something_~?" He grinned down at her, his eyes glittering darkly.

"What is wrong with you?" Octavia whispered, looking up at her assistant, with unease. "It's like...you're a _totally_ different person, again."

"_Very_ good~!" Howard replied, patting her head with affection. "I have to admit, I_ hoooonestly_ didn't think I'd like you this much. You're far more tiger than house cat. I think we're going to have a lot of _fun_, you and I."

He stroked her shoulder, smiling as she shuddered.

"I'm Jim, by the way."

* * *

AN: Jiiiiiiiiiiim. ^_^

I'm going to be completely honest and say that, While Sherlock Holmes will **always** be the number one Genius Consultant in my heart, Jim Moriarty holds a very close second.


	10. Behind the Mask

XX, XX, 2012 - Day 1

Howard's new...personality, I guess… is a man named Jim. He's...freaky. I mean, it's bad enough that my assistant's got some sort of dissociative disorder but this new guy seems to actually be batshit _insane_. Also, he's got no respect for my personal space. I really want him to stop rubbing my head like I'm his pet cat. It's friggin' creepy.

XX, XX 2012 - Day 3

I consider myself to be pretty tough. I mean, I've looked into the eyes of hardened criminals; sociopaths, murderers, rapists. I thought I'd seen it all.

But that was before Jim. He... I mean, I'm actually shaking as I write this. He's COMPLETELY unpredictable. One minute he's telling me more of 'The Story' and, the next, he's trying to strangle me with earbud cord.

I've been trying to contact his handler about this but, so far, all I get is this secretary, who keeps giving me some vague, total BS line about him being 'busy with other projects, at the moment and is unable to speak to me.'

XX, XX 2012 - Day 6

That's it. I'm done. I can't deal with this any more.

He flipped out a few minutes ago. I was in the kitchen, making lunch, when I felt his hand at my waist.

"What the heck, Howar-"

Suddenly his arm whipped up and I felt cold, sharp metal pressed to my neck.

"I'm _tired_ of you calling me Howard. Howard is gone. My name," he hissed, his other hand gripping my side, bruising my skin, "is _Jim_. Now, say it. Say my name."

* * *

Octavia flinched as her mobile phone vibrated in her pocket. She wiped her eyes and pulled it out. She nearly cried with joy at the international number, glancing at her bedroom door as she answered it.

"_Please_ be the handler," she begged, skipping pleasantries.

"...I'm terribly sorry it's taken so long for us to communi-"

"Tell me you're going to come get him," she pleaded, gripping the phone so tightly that her fingers began to ache. "I... What the _HELL_ is wrong with you people, sending a bloody psychopathic _monster_ to work in my crime lab?!"

She froze as she heard the door down the hall open.

_*cli-ick cli-ick cli-ick cli-*_

She exhaled with relief when the sound of his footsteps faded, as he headed upstairs.

"Miss Chandler, I do apologise for his behaviour. I assure you that it is entirely unprecedented. I had NO idea that his injury had caused this sort of-"

"It wasn't because of his injury - his personality changed for the first time _before _he hit his head. You'd know this, if you would answer your own bloody mobile from time to time, Mister..."

She knew he hadn't told her his name; nor could she remember ever hearing it from his secretary.

"Miss Chandler, I have known this man, quite literally, for his entire life. He has some quirks, yes, but the fact remains: he is a scientist. A thinker. He's immature - downright childish, in fact - is prone to throwing fits; he's socially awkward and grows bored with alarming celerity. He's antagonistic, at times but he is not malicious," the British man said, passionately.

Octavia noticed he avoided her indirect request for his name and frowned.

"I don't care if you've known him for thirty seconds or thirty _years_ - he's dangerous and I refuse to continue risking my _life_ by playing host to him. He nearly slit my throat less than twenty minutes ago because I called him Howard instead of Jim!"

"Did... He's calling himself Jim?" the man asked, his tone suddenly bleak. "Does he... Does he talk to himself at all?"

"D'you mean does Jim talk to Howard?" Octavia bit her thumb as she mentally reviewed the past week. "Yeah. Pretty often, actually. He calls him a 'fake' and a 'liar'... He refers to him as "Sir Boast-a-lot" and "The Virgin"."

She frowned at the lack of response from the other end of the line.

"Hello? Are you still-"

"Miss Chandler, I realise that you don't know me and that I have no right to request this of you, but please; go find him and make sure he hasn't done anything...irreversibly asinine."

"What, like carrying out his threat to skin the paperboy?" she snapped. "Finding him is the very last thing I want to do at the momen-"

_*thud CRASH*_

"Oh, for the luvva-!"

Octavia ran to the door and unlocked it, grabbing a roll of duct tape and a can of hairspray off her dresser before heading up the stairs.

"If that was my Father's desk lamp he just broke, you'll be getting him back in a bloody body bag," Octavia growled, before turning on the speakerphone. "Okay, so I'm standing outside the study door - he's in there, and I've got you on speaker. Start cajoling, or whatever the hell else you Bond-types do."

She slid the phone under the door and groaned.

"Oh, yes, Octavia, you're absolutely _brilliant_. Can't just kick the _obviously_ crazy man out of your house, can you? Noooo, you've got to try to get him to revert to his previous self." she muttered as she sat on the floor, across from the doorway.

* * *

She had been sitting there for almost an hour, contemplating her chances of getting her phone back without losing a limb, when she heard the front door open, followed by her brother's voice.

"Hey, Octavia? There's a British Intelligence agent in my car who says it's urgent that Sherman join him." Octavia groaned again and pushed herself up off the floor.

"Ask him if he's willing to take Jim, instead," she called down, her right hand reluctantly grasping the doorknob, hairspray held at the ready in her left, "because I have a nagging suspicion that 'The Handler' wasn't exactly able to convince him to hand over the re-"

She fell silent as she opened the door, the improvised weapon falling to the floor with a thunk before rolling out of reach.

"Close it. Please. I...please," a hoarse, whispery baritone - deeper than Jim's voice, she noted - wafted from the far corner of the darkened room.

She took in his huddled form, with his hands pressed over his ears and eyes shut tightly, and silently complied. She squinted to see him, frowning as his body jerked at the relatively quiet click of the door. Once it was closed his body relaxed, marginally.

**\Sudden Photosensitivity and Hyperacusis\**

"...You've got a visitor outside. Well, Sherman does. But I've got a feeling that you are Sherman, again..." she murmured, inching over to him, crouching down next to him. "Did he do that?" she asked, her hand hovering over his bloodied knuckles, internally sighing with relief over the fact that the crash hadn't been her father's Tiffany desk lamp.

She wasn't too happy about the shattered glass in the display case, though, but she'd deal with that later.

"He's destroyed it," whispered the wounded man, his face hidden from view.

"It's okay, Howard. I can replace it. I'm more worried about your hand - does it hurt? Can you feel any glass in there?"

He ignored her, his volume increasing slightly, as he continued.

"First my reputation... And now, my Mind Palace... He's destroyed _everything_," he mourned, shaking his head, slowly. "I don't even know the truth, anymore. Maybe I did create him. Or maybe...I'm the creation. Maybe everything has been a lie, from the very beginning."

"Hey, don't start talking like that! You're the genuine article - he's the phoney. I've spent enough time with you to know that. He's just...just a character. You're the real deal."

Octavia was taken aback by the tired chuckle that came from her partner.

"Oh, how you remind me of John," he sighed, sitting up straighter. "He also insisted that I was 'real'. He trusted me implicitly." He sighed again.

"And how did I repay that trust? By jumping of a bloody roof."

* * *

AN: Le reveal!

Sorry I didn't post at all last week - life was crazy busy, and the muse was on strike. -_-

- Hanna


	11. Shock, Awe, and Big Brothers

And now, we've got Octavia's reaction.

* * *

It was a good thing that Octavia was sitting. Because the casually tossed revelation that her assistant just threw at her sent her reeling.

"Wha... What?! WHAT?!" she shrieked, sending the hypersensitive man back under the blanket he'd appropriated from the futon in the corner. "Sorry! I'm sorry!" she gasped, slapping her hands across her mouth. "You just... Are you serious? Like, you're really, truly, honestly THE Sherlock Holmes?" she squeaked, before clearing her throat.

"Wait... PLEASE tell me this isn't ANOTHER 'crazy thing'. Not that you're crazy - well, not always crazy. I mean, sometimes, yeah, you're crazy, like when you threatened to skin the paper boy for throwing the paper into the bushes, or when you tried to talk the guy at the National Zoo into letting you 'borrow' the Siberian Tiger for a while, or the time that you tried to strangle me with your headphones because I asked you to stop singing "Psycho Killer" at the top of your lungs, or the time when-"

"Miss Chandler, if you would stop rambling at such a high pitch, I'd appreciate it immensely," he all but growled from under the blanket.

"Sorry, sorry!" she squeaked again, when he flinched, peering at him with a mixture of fascination and apprehension.

"Hn. To answer your question: yes, I am THE Sherlock Holmes."

He flinched as she made an unearthly sort of squealing noise, for which she immediately apologised.

"So, is the story-?"

"True? Yes, for the most part. It happened not long after "A Study in Pink", as John so cleverly entitled our first case. I was simply telling it from his perspective, rather than my own." The detective had poked his head out from under his protective covering, looking for all the world like some sort of bizarre alien tortoise. "He does tend to romanticise the strangest things..."

"You miss him, don't you," she said, leaning her head against the wall.

"Hn," Sherlock intoned, neither confirming nor denying her statement.

"Why'd you do it, then?"

"I had no other choice."

"I'mma call bullshit on that one, How - er... Holmes," she smiled, softening the statement.

"Call it what you will, Miss Chandler. There were guns trained on John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He said that, unless I jumped - unless I ended it..."

"But he killed himself, yeah? I saw the newscast and read all the articles I could find on the Internet - his body was found on the roof, covered in blood and GSR." She mimicked putting a gun in her mouth and pulling the trigger. "So he couldn't give 'em the order to shoot-"

"There were cameras..witnesses. It was out in public - he made sure of it. He was very fond of that sort of thing... dramatic to the end."

Octavia snorted.

"If the version of him that you've got livin' in your head is anything to go by... 'Fond' is an understatement of catastrophic proportions." She pursed her lips as a new thought occurred.

"Since he's dead and his snipers think you're dead...it's not like your friends are still in the crosshairs. You could contact them. You SHOULD contact them." Sherlock sighed at her statement.

"I will, once I've taken care of the remainder of his operation," he remarked, the blanket pooling around him on the floor as he flopped onto his back and pushed off the wall with his feet. The detective stretched out and stared at the ceiling, once again sighing loudly. "I've got so much work to do and I've no idea where to start."

Octavia frowned as she considered her assistant. (Who was actually her hero. Who the world thought was dead.)

_Life's full of ironies, isn't it?_

"Mark might be able to help. Kev and Luke, too. Heck, even Dad's got connections that might turn out to be beneficial."

She scooched so that she was laying on her stomach next to him.

"But I'd definitely talk to Mark, first."

"I thought I felt a disturbance in the Force. You volunteering me for something again, Princess?" Both consultants looked at the doorway. Octavia rolled around, sat up, and waved.

"Heey, Mark. He needs information on an international crime ring." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, pointing to her partner.

"Is that so?" Sherlock, upon seeing the umbrella wielding man standing behind Mark, groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the blanket.

"Why are you even here? Go away, Mycroft."

"_Mycroft?_ What kind of name is Mycroft?" Octavia asked, looking at the well-dressed man. "Sounds like your parents were playing Scrabble while drunk. Or a German pastry..." she muttered as she cupped her chin with her right hand and studied him further.

**\SUIT TAILORED TO HELP HIM APPEAR THINNER\ CURRENTLY ON A DIET \GOVERNMENT WORKER\**

"Waaaiiit... You're the handler, aren't you!" she frowned. "You're a _jerk._"

Sherlock's lips twitched in amusement at her assertion, as Mycroft sputtered in indignation. Mark rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Hey, Octavia, play nice. Mister Ho-"

"I'm here to collect Mister Howard, if you don't mind," Mycroft interrupted, his smile very obviously forced. Mark's brow furrowed but he said nothing.

"I think you'll find that he's declining to acquiesce to your request," Octavia replied, crossing her arms and glaring at the elder Holmes brother. Sherlock's deep, quiet chuckle made her turn and flash him a grin before continuing.

"Seeing as he's no longer in residence here. Right, Holmes?" Mycroft looked at his brother in alarm.

"You told her?" he asked, his face an indecipherable mask once again.

"Oh, do relax, brother dear," Sherlock replied, sarcastically, as he rose to his feet, brushing himself off. "She's put up with enough of my alter ego's nonsense to be trusted with my true identity." He strode past Mark to stand in front of his brother.

"You'll tell Mummy hello for me, won't you? Of course you will." He patted Mycroft's chest and smiled condescendingly. "Now, off you pop - Miss Chandler and I have work to do." He beckoned for her to follow him as he left the room.

"Sherlock, there are import-"

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Sherlock-"

"...Do you need a gilded invitation or something? He said 'goodbye'. So... Goodbye," Octavia quipped as she passed the older man on her way out the door.

"It's about Moriarty's network." Sherlock froze at his brother's words. Octavia's shoulders drooped as he slowly turned around, his sea-grey eyes narrow and angry.

"Tell me."

* * *

So, what do you guys think? Let me know in your reviews! :)


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